


Burrito May Care (for Mikey)

by jennfics



Category: NCIS
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Kid!Fic, TIVA - Freeform, future!fic, mention of Somalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3425639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennfics/pseuds/jennfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(based on this prompt: “Burrito date!!! Mommy Daughter go on burrito date!” from Mikey – please direct all feels-related angst to her as this is ALL HER FAULT; also thanks to Kate for letting me literally throw this idea at her)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burrito May Care (for Mikey)

Ziva DiNozzo is running late to meet her daughter. She scrambles to grab the gear from her desk, calling out a farewell to her team as she runs from the bullpen. Parking is a nightmare at this time downtown, and instead she stows her backpack in the trunk and leaves the Navy Yard on foot.

The walk is a familiar one. She and her daughter have spent one night a week together for many years now at their favorite Mexican restaurant. “Hole-in-the-wall” as her husband call it, but to Ziva and Norah, it’s a secret spot meant for only mothers and their daughters. Over burritos, Ziva tells her stories from the past – mostly amusing tales of her childhood or the fair share of antics from her years as a part of Team Gibbs – but also of her family, of Tali and Schmiel. There are some stories Norah knows well enough to recite herself, yet always asks to hear them.

As she rounds the corner, Ziva is struck with the thought that this will be their last burrito date for some time. Norah is leaving for college in London soon, and though she is trying, Ziva can’t hide her heartbreak. She had never imagined the closeness and attachment she would form with her children, and the special, precious bond she has with her daughter. She sighs heavily as wetness forms around her eyes. She blinks it away quickly, and soothes a hand over her flyaway hair.

When the restaurant comes into view, she can see her daughter through the window sitting at their usual table, with one leg tucked under her and papers spread across the tabletop. Her short, curly hair is brushed to one side, the pink-tinted ends amassed together. A tattoo in Hebrew runs the length of her spine to the base of her neck, and there are political buttons and badges pinned to her bag. Ziva can’t help but smile. Her girl is fiercely independent. As she passes the window, she catches her daughter’s eye. Her wide grin and waving hand cause Ziva’s chest to constrict at just how much she will miss her.

“Shalom, Ima. Ma shelomka?” Her daughter kisses one cheek and then the other, the shorts ends of her hair tickling Ziva’s nose as she passes.

“I am fine, my girl. How is…” she looks down at the piles of papers on the table and smiles indulgently. “How is the planning going?”

Norah scoffs as she sits, spreading her hands out in front of her dramatically. “The planning is not going, basically. There’s just so much to do before I leave,” she whines.

Ziva clucks her tongue once, and Norah hangs her head. “Sorry. I know. Whining does not help.” She imitates her mother’s voice perfectly, and Ziva chuckles.

“Let us order and then we can figure,” she motions to the stack of papers with one hand, “all of this out.” Her daughter’s smile is a grateful one.

She moves quickly to grab Ziva’s hand from across the table. “I’m glad you’re here, mom.”

Ziva stares down at their clasped hands, and can’t help but remember a similar moment from two years prior. Her daughter was on the edge of womanhood then, still a child in many ways but admirably pushing her independence.

_Fidgety is not a word she would normally use to describe her mother. Purposeful, sure. Calculated would fit, too. Her brows furrow as she takes a long look, watching her mother’s movements intently. Wringing her fingers together, worrying her bottom lip, and most notably, not making eye contact. Norah DiNozzo is many things, and perhaps most prominently, she is the daughter of two trained federal agents._

_“Alright, what gives.” Her exasperated tone pulls Ziva from her thoughts. She curves her lips up at the ends, but her daughter isn’t having it._

_“Come on, mom. I know you.” She’s pulling the wrapper off her straw, pointing it at Ziva before adding it to her glass with a plunk._

_Ziva sighs heavily, but is saved by the waitress bringing over their plates._

_“Can we put in an order to go for cinnamon empanadas?” Ziva’s smile is knowing as she listens to her daughter talk to the waitress._

_She waits until the waitress leaves, then asks “for your father?”_

_“Yeah. Sam texted me right before you got here, said dad had left a message at the house that he’d be working late. Figured we should probably bring him home something. Sam’s eating with the guys after practice.” Ziva feels her chest expand with pride, and her smile grows warmer._

_“Thank you for doing that. I am sure your father will appreciate it.” She watches her daughter shrug dismissively, and she can only laugh taking the moment to appreciate just how grateful she feels. Her children are kinder people than she could have hoped, and they are good to each other. Strangely, this small interaction puts her at ease, and gives her the encouragement to have the conversation she had planned for tonight._

_“Norah,” her daughter pauses, fork in midair. She knows her mother’s serious tone, and answers her with a quizzical tilt of her head._

_“There is something I would like to talk with you about tonight. It is more of a serious thing,” she shrugs one shoulder, using her hands for emphasis. “I would like to tell you about something that happened to me a long time ago. I have been hesitant until now to discuss this with you, but I think this is something you need to hear,” she pauses for a moment and swallows hard, “from me. I need you to hear this from me.”_

_To her credit, Norah DiNozzo sets down her fork and gives her mother her full attention._

_“Is this why you were so fidgety when you got here?” Her voice is quiet. Gone is the joking tone of a few minutes prior._

_“Yes.” Ziva takes a deep breath and counts to four before exhaling slowly. “What I need to tell you is not easy for me. If afterward you have questions, I would prefer you ask me and not your father. He still,” Ziva chooses her words carefully here, eyes darting to the floor for a moment. “He is still very affected by what happened, even though it was a long time ago.”_

_Ziva watches as her daughter nods, and is struck by how much she sees of herself in the child. Her shoulders have squared, jaw tightened. But it’s the look in her eyes – that willingness, a ferocity even to face the unknown – that confirms her readiness._

_“My father was a difficult man to love. He was more dedicated to country than to family. There are several events that led up to what you need to know now, although perhaps there will be a time in the future for us to discuss those as well.” In a slow and cautious tone, Ziva tells her daughter a ghost story of a summer spent captive in an African desert. She watches the play of emotions across her daughter’s face, and pays attention to the sharp intakes of breath and the tremble of her lips. There are parts she glances over – her brother’s betrayal; the prevailing belief she had died on the Damocles, and Tony’s suicide mission to avenge her; her father’s role in assigning her as Michael’s replacement in the Kidon unit; and her relationship with Michael entirely. Ziva focuses instead on how she felt, what she thought then of love and loyalty, and most importantly family, and has come to believe since that time._

_“Grandpa Gibbs. Uncle Tim. And of course, your father – they are the heroes of this story.” Ziva’s smile is watery as she takes her daughter’s hand. “You father is the hero of all my stories.”_

_Norah releases a ragged breath, tears pricking the backs of her eyelids. She has to ask, needs to know…_

_“Mom? I – “ she looks away from Ziva, out the window to the street. She watches as the wind picks up a pile of leaves, blowing them through the air over the sidewalk. Reaching for her glass, she drains her water then turns back to her mother._

_“Did they…did they hurt you?” Her voice is a pleading whisper. As much as she wishes she could lie, ease the pain of this moment, Ziva can only nod._

_“Mad men with vengeful hearts are not kind to their prisoners. There was no mercy. It has taken me many years to move forward, and I do not wish for you to dwell on this now. Do you understand?” Her mother’s eyes are pleading but fierce, and she feels a sob bubble up in her throat. Choking back to swallow her grief, she nods more vigorously than intended._

_“Ken, Ima. I understand.” Her mother’s fingers tighten around her hand, and she returns the pressure with a gentle squeeze. A silent conversation passes as hope blossoms in the space between them, replacing the terror and sadness._

_“This might sound a little crazy,” she shakes her head with a sigh, “but I feel like I’m seeing you for the first time.” Ziva’s breathe catches at her daughter’s words, and she can only stare at the girl, eyes wide._

_“It’s just that,” she pauses and glances for a moment at their empty glasses. How many glasses and plates have littered this table? How many evenings have they spent here sharing dinner and stories? How many years has she lived and not known? How?_

_The clarity her mother’s confession brings her is startling. Suddenly, the woman across from her makes sense in a way she hadn’t before. Her cautiousness. Those days when she wears her anger like a shroud. And the nights she would hear her mother’s cries, muddled with her father’s hushed voice. She had always thought there was a reason, although in hindsight she could never have imagined this._

_She takes another deep breath and starts again._

_“It’s just that you said dad was the hero of this story. But you’re wrong, mom.” Her voice cracks just a little, but she steadies herself as she continues. “You’re the hero of this story. I always knew you were brave. I just never thought –“ A tear slips down Ziva’s cheek, and she reaches over to brush her fingers across her mother’s face._

_“I’m so sorry. I know you said it was a long time ago, and that you’ve moved on. And I won’t dwell on it, I promise. But I just need you to know that I’m sorry it happened to you.” Ziva leans forward and presses a long kiss to her daughter’s cheek, then to her hair. She holds her close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders._

_“Thank you, my darling” she whispers. “Ani ohev otach.” She leans to the side and rests her forehead against her mother’s shoulder. They sit together for some time, Ziva’s fingers brushing through her hair in even, calming strokes._

“Mom?” Norah’s voice breaks through Ziva’s memory and she shakes her thoughts clear with a smile.

“Sorry, tateleh. What did you say?”

“I said that I’m glad you’re here. I was feeling really overwhelmed with all of this.” Ziva squeezes her daughter’s hand before releasing it to reach into her purse.

“I brought you a gift.” Her daughter scrunches her face as Ziva places the box in front of her.

“I’m not leaving for another two weeks. I thought we weren’t doing good-byes yet. Sam will be pissed.” Norah points at the box, an unsure frown crossing her features.

“Do not worry. Your father is aware I had planned this for tonight.” Ziva smiles, gesturing to the box and then to Norah. “We are still planning to celebrate, and there is plenty of time for your brother to finish whatever he is working on the basement.”

The familiar DiNozzo grin graces her daughter’s face as she reaches for the box. But the grin is quickly replaced with a dropped jaw and sharp exhale.

“Ima, no. I can’t.” Her eyes are wide when they find her mother’s, but Ziva only smiles.

“Is this –“ Norah breathes out, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Is this yours?”

Ziva nods, but her watery eyes betray her emotions. “This is my old friend,” she whispers.

With great care, Norah pulls the pendant and thin chin from the box. As she holds up the Star of David, she begins to cry in earnest.

Ziva rises from her chair to wrap her arms around her daughter, holding her tightly to her chest. She whispers words of comfort into her hair. “You are leaving on a great journey, neshomeleh. But I want to be sure you know, you can always come home. We are always your family. Our love for you is permanent.”

Norah nods as she wraps an arm around her mother’s waist. If the other patrons in the restaurant find this display odd, none mention it. The waitress, a kind woman with cherry red nails, has been serving the duo every Tuesday night for the past ten years. Pulling out a napkin from the apron around her waist, she dabs at the corners of each eye as she watches them.

Several minutes pass before Norah regains her composure and Ziva her seat. She helps her daughter clasp the necklace around her neck, smiles brightly at the fitting place the pendant finds against her chest.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Norah quips and both women chuckle. “Now, about this roommate situation…” The two spend the next several hours discussing London, from classes to currency exchange. By the end, Norah is feeling less anxious and Ziva more content.

“So mom, there is one last thing I need before I leave…” her smile is playful, and Ziva scrunches her nose in return.

“And what is that?” she asks.

“I need to know,” leaning over the table, Norah whispers conspiratorially, “how the hell did Grandpa Gibbs get that boat out of the basement?”

Ziva erupts with laughter, and her daughter follows suit. The sounds of their happy voices carry through the restaurant and out to the street, swallowed by the wind and leaves that blow over the sidewalk. 


End file.
